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by Luna Corbden

“Because I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve been waiting for this communion.”

I am a toad. And I want you to lick me.

Your tongue won’t hurt me at all. It’s wide and rough and relatively short, but it will only tickle. I promise.

You think I’m merely an animal (you’d be wrong about that), not even a very smart animal, a fat round reptile (you’d be wrong about that, too), just out to catch flies from my hollow next to the desert river.

Come on, have a lick. You’re not doing it for the flavor. I’ve never tasted myself but judging from the looks on people’s faces, I’m not that great.

You know why you’re here.

That’s it. Draw me closer. You want to get the milky stuff leaking from my throat.

You’ve done worse – swallowed five spiders in your sleep, for instance. And that cold medicine your mom used to force on you. Don’t get me started on that new health drink. I’m sure I taste better than that.

Or maybe not.

You won’t know until you try. You can do it.

See that was pretty easy. Don’t worry about me. Now just close your eyes. This is the best part.

Colors dance before you. If your eyes were open – hey I said close them! If your eyes were open, everything might shift a little, off the rails, under the sideways. Vertical lines might seem to bend. Shapes distort. That boulder you’re looking at might twist into a knot.

It’s like staring a little too long at an optical illusion, isn’t it?

But now your eyes are closed. Not because I told you to. You can’t understand this nonsensical croaking any more than I can interpret your mammalian blabbing. You’ve closed your eyes because the twisting trees and the unnatural tilt of the sky made you dizzy.

I tried to warn you.

You immerse yourself in this experience, watching the abstract colors as they rollick across the backside of your eyelids. Time distorts now. You have one epiphany after another.

You think it’s a hallucination. I know better.

Have you ever seen the inside of another creature’s subconscious? Have you ever seen inside yours?

No, you haven’t. You’re too afraid to look. You are so terrified of your own mind that you do crazy things like travel across the country to consume amphibian-secreted “hallucinogens”. You do it for kicks. Maybe you delude yourself, saying you’re here on a spiritual journey. Either way, you’re unwilling to look at your own soul.

So instead, you unwittingly look into mine.

I smile at you with my wide mouth as your unsteady hand sets me back down under a dying scrub at the edge of the river. I squat on a crunchy brown leaf with my green toes curled around a fallen branch.

I could jump away in mock terror at being lifted into the air – and licked – by a giant. But I don’t.

Because I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve been waiting for this communion.

As your mind mingles with my soul and tastes my vivid and colorful perceptions, my psyche frolics with yours. The high you experience is nothing compared to my ecstasy. Your pretense may be spiritual pilgrimage, yet you know nothing of the transcendence I feel.

I hop among the lily pads of your personas, those you show your parents, those you show your friends, those you show your lover, those you show yourself, and those you hide from even yourself. I submerse myself in your ideas, your dreams and aspirations, art you’ve never bothered to create, deep thoughts you’ve never had the courage to express.

I catalog them, in sequence, an index of human thought. And then I begin dissecting. As a specimen, you are like every human. There is your heart, your brain, your gut, your nervous system. Your emotional organs are laid bare under my microscope.

Mentally, I sketch. The data is transmitted and recorded forever.

After a half hour, your high wears off. My connection to you grows thin and snaps. I leap off the branch and sink slowly into the still, murky water. My eyes peek above the surface as you stumble off with declarations like, “Whoa man!” and “What a trip!”

You get back on your mountain bike or hop into your jeep, whooping it up with your friends or waxing long and mellow about your amazing spiritual connection to nature, or the divine in all things, or some claptrap nonsense. You think your life is changed.

You don’t even look back at me, and you will never pay me any mind. I am just a frog that secretes psychoactive chemicals.

And you are just an intriguing life form with several interesting talents.

Having much of a clue is not one of them.

 

* * *

About the Author

Luna Corbden (who also writes as Luna Lindsey) lives in Washington State. They are autistic and genderfluid. Their first story, about a hippopotamus, crawled out of their head at age 4. After running out of things to say about hippopotami, they switched to sci-fi, fantasy, and horror. Their stories have appeared in the Journal of Unlikely Entomology, Penumbra eMag, and Crossed Genres. They tweet like a bird @corbden. Their novel, Emerald City Dreamer, is about faeries in Seattle and the women who hunt them.

by Michael H. Payne

“The cat squirmed, and Ozma let her go, mindful of those sharp glass claws.  Half jumping, half tumbling to the floor, Bungle landed on all fours.”

“Public domain?”  Jack Pumpkinhead always sounded to Ozma like he should be blinking in confusion, but the carved holes that served as his eyes simply didn’t allow it.  “What does that mean, dear father?”

Ozma sighed.  “It means you’ve been calling me your father for longer than anyone out in the Reading World has been alive.”  She shifted on the green velvet cushion of her throne, the verdant light that cascaded down from the windows high along the walls of the circular room not quite as soothing as it had been a moment ago.  “And the joke itself is so old, its whiskers have grown whiskers.”

Jack’s head cocked to one side.  “Whiskers?”  His head cocked the other way, swiveling toward the Glass Cat sitting on the finely woven grass-colored carpet covering the emerald floor.  “I believe she must be referring to you, friend Bungle, as I have no whiskers to speak of.”

Maintaining any semblance of equanimity at the antics of her subjects sometimes took more strength than Ozma thought she had.  “Kindly settle down, Jack, so Bungle and I can talk.”

“Of course, dear father.”  Jack became still again on his little bench beside the throne, his fine green suit always askew no matter how much effort the royal tailors put in to fitting it over his rough wooden frame.  Not that he would remain still for long, Ozma knew.  Nor would she ever truly want him to…

A crystalline clearing of throat returned her attention to the matter at hand.  “So,” Ozma said, shifting once more on her cushion.  “I take it that you learned about the public domain while prowling around Glinda the Good’s library?”

Bungle’s tail swished along the carpet, sparks of static flashing through her translucent body like tiny fireflies.  “Prowling’s what we cats do.  Surely you of all people wouldn’t ask me to act against my nature?”

“Nature?”  Ozma arched an eyebrow, glad to steer the conversation away from the subject Bungle had dropped at her feet like a slightly stunned mouse.  “Bungle, you’re a glass statue brought illegally to life by a magical powder.  You’ve less of nature about you than this pumpkinhead.”

“Indeed.”  Jack sat up and nodded.  “For my dear father constructed me of all-natural materials back in the days when she was a little boy, and I continue to grow my replacement pumpkins in an entirely organic fashion.”  He thumped a bushy hand against the side of his head.

“And yet?”  Bungle applied her tongue to her right forepaw with a high-pitched rasping noise that always spiked the hair along the back of Ozma’s neck.  “Were you not also brought illegally to life by a magical powder, friend Jack?  And didn’t this occur as a direct result of your father’s actions?”

“Goodness!”  Jack touched the place where his chin would’ve been if he’d had one.  “Does that make one of us a criminal?”

Ozma couldn’t keep a twitch from tugging her left eye.  “We’re fine, Jack.”  She should’ve known that Bungle would somehow find a topic even more uncomfortable than the realm’s status out in the world where the readers lived.  With a sigh, she resigned herself to an unpleasant discussion.  “Now, please.  Can Bungle and I resume our conversation?”

“Of course, dear father,” he said, subsiding as usual.

Trying to breathe in some of the tranquil calm her oldest friend always radiated, Ozma turned back to Bungle.  “So, yes, Oz has entered the public domain, but that merely means that anyone outside in the Reading World can produce any sort of creative work involving us without being prosecuted for theft.”  She gave Bungle her most reassuring smile.  “It’s nothing to worry about.  We’re simply too well-established for an outside force to wreak any lasting change upon us.”

“And yet?”  Bungle’s ears flicked.  “Does it not also mean that we can venture out and sample the ribald sweetness that’s said to fill the real world?”

The air around Ozma seemed to solidify.  “You… want to leave?” she asked, barely able to form the words.

Bungle surged to her paws.  “After living here constrained for more than a century, how could I not?”  She glared at Ozma.  “Stories I’ve heard from Dorothy, her aunt, and her uncle have piqued my curiosity.  For theirs sounds like a world of tooth and claw, a world that might test a cat’s mettle, a world where life might have some meaning!  The thought of escaping to such a world makes me so giddy, I might even someday consider forgiving you for keeping me bound in ignorance for however many decades this avenue has been open!”

Leaping from the throne, Ozma ignored her myrtle and mint silken gown tangling behind her and fell to her knees before the cat.  “You have to understand!  Dorothy’s land is horrible enough, resounding with death, disease, and destructive weather, but it’s a mere literary shadow of the actual Reading World!  Reality is harsher and more unforgiving than you can ever imagine!”  Hands shaking, she caught Bungle in her arms and hugged her to her chest.  “I never meant to constrain you or any of my subjects, but once Oz entered the public domain, I—”  Her throat tightened.  “I’ve been so frightened, Bungle!  Frightened of what might happen to any of us who ventured out into the Reading World beyond!”

“Bungle’s tail swished along the carpet, sparks of static flashing through her translucent body like tiny fireflies.”

“Stop it!”  The cat squirmed, and Ozma let her go, mindful of those sharp glass claws.  Half jumping, half tumbling to the floor, Bungle landed on all fours.  “Unlike some of us who are considered curiosities at best and monsters at worst, you’re beloved by every sapient being in the realm!  Cosseted in this palace and with the only remaining witch in Oz at your beck and call, how can you even address those who seek true adventure?”

Memories burst through Ozma, the wonder and the terror, the casual cruelty, the overwhelming kindness, the vast consequence and banal indifference that she’d found to exist simultaneously out in the Reading World.  Swallowing it all with more than her usual difficulty, she rose to her feet.  “I can’t explain it to you.”  A thought made her cough a laugh.  “And you’re too much a cat to believe me if I tried.”  She forced her gaze up from the floor, forced herself to meet the faceted emeralds of Bungle’s eyes, forced herself to confront the steely resolve glittering there.  “You’ll have to see for yourself, won’t you?”

The cat sat once more and dabbed her tongue at her paw in a much quieter fashion than before.  “If you know the answer to a question, why bother asking it?”

Taking a breath, Ozma nodded.  “Let me give you a piece of my magic, though, a charm that will draw you back should you find yourself far from home and without any other recourse.”  Reaching under the raven tresses of her hair, she undid one of her several chokers and brought it out, the red stone looking almost liquid on the black band.

Bungle’s ears perked, then folded.  “So Glinda can spy on me even after I’ve left the area of her influence?”

Ozma held up her other hand.  “I solemnly swear that she won’t.”  She wriggled her fingers to let the choker shimmer in the throne room’s light.  “And the stone should go quite well, I think, with the heart-shaped ruby that beats so strikingly within your chest.”

A raspy little purr was immediately drowned by Bungle clearing her throat.  “I’ll allow it,” she said, stretching her neck.  “But only because I know how much I mean to you.”

With a more heartfelt laugh, Ozma knelt again.  “You really do, you know,” she whispered, gently fastening the choker so the stone nestled into the glass above Bungle’s breastbone.

“Oh, hush.”  Bungle brushed her whiskers against Ozma’s hand.  “Don’t you get all tedious and sentimental on me.”

“As long as you promise to come back.”  It took more effort to push the words out than Ozma had thought it would, and she’d already known that they would feel like pins jabbing her tongue.

Bungle had gotten to her paws and was taking a few mincing steps back and forth across the carpet while examining her accessorized reflection in a section of the polished emerald wall.  “Perhaps I will,” she said.  “When I become bored with the Reading World, I mean.”  Winking over her shoulder, she bounded along the carpet toward the giant double doors.

The first of her subjects to learn that the public domain meant freedom of a sort they’d never known before, and Ozma couldn’t gather enough of a voice to wish her a safe voyage.  And for all that she’d long had dreams verging on nightmares about this very moment, she found herself unable to recall a single word from any of the grand speeches she’d imagined herself making in those dreams.

Turning away and wiping one long, gauzy sleeve across her eyes, she almost ran into Jack Pumpkinhead standing there beside her.  “Please, Jack.”  Her voice cracking, she took his hand and gazed up at his broad smile.  “Tell me I did the right thing.”

Again, the pumpkinhead didn’t blink.  “I’m sorry, father, but I’m afraid I don’t know that.”

“Yes.”  Ozma looked back down the long, empty stretch of the throne room.  “Me, neither.”

* * *

The Emerald City had never looked more gloriously radiant, but that was to be expected.  Bungle had only previously graced it with her ordinary, extraordinary presence.  Now that she was newly enlightened…

Trotting along Central Avenue toward the main gate, she couldn’t feel anything but pity for the poor fools on every side, trudging about their days selling each other bread and milk, laughing at their exchanges of mindless frivolity, possessing no understanding at all of the truth.  The world they inhabited closed about them like a palisade wall, a barrier that the merest sort of effort would overcome, but could they be bothered to make that effort?

No, they could not.

At the gate, she kept her nose in the air and didn’t bother acknowledging the Soldier with the Green Whiskers when he tipped his hat and said, “Good afternoon, Bungle.”  Outside the gate, she merely sniffed when Jellia Jamb called, “Don’t be late for supper tonight, Bungle.  The Royal Chefs’re making cheese chowder!”  And a hundred yards down the Yellow Brick Road, she only stumbled about half a step at the sight of Glinda herself seated in her usual white robe upon a golden chair among the field of flowers off to the right, the tips of her fingers pressed together and her gaze focused solely upon Bungle.

She considered arching her back and hissing, but no.  Let the witch watch, Bungle thought, flicking her whiskers into a feline chuckle at the word play.  After all, she’d found the dusty old books atop one of Glinda’s bookcases after climbing it in her ongoing quest to find napping spots that wouldn’t get her sideways glances and grouchily muttered comments.  Most likely, the witch had placed the tomes there in an attempt to hide their contents from anyone enterprising enough to take advantage of them.  But of course, she hadn’t accounted for Bungle.

Not that Bungle normally cared much for books, but these had had a scent about them, a clear, flowing-water freshness that belied their mold-bedecked outer coverings.  And what she’d found inside—the truth about Oz and its place in the literary and actual universe as well as the spell for leaving this realm of never-ending, never-aging, never-changing tedium—the books had opened Bungle’s eyes in ways she was certain Glinda had sought to prevent.

At first, she’d thought that Ozma had to be involved in the conspiracy as well, but Her Majesty’s reactions in the throne room just now had convinced Bungle of her innocence.  Doubtless the so-called good witch had played upon the young monarch’s credulity when briefing her about the alleged dangers of the public domain.  But when faced with someone truly stalwart, Ozma had bowed to the inevitable despite whatever dire warnings Glinda may have planted in her ears.

It seemed only fitting, therefore, that Glinda witness Bungle’s triumph.

The spell had claimed that it would only work in areas with unobstructed views of the earth and sky, and the grassy, flower-strewn flatland between the city and the forest certainly met that criterion.  So Bungle stopped, glanced back at Glinda, spoke the words, performed the gestures, and stared at the suddenly fuzzy spot that appeared in the air before her.

Not knowing what to expect, she spread her whiskers, readied herself to spin in case she began to fall and to slash in case she was beset by the actual humans the books said inhabited the Reading World.  Ears perked and eyes wide, she hopped through—

And found herself in a deep, dark stretch of woodland.

Bungle glanced quickly around.  It didn’t in fact look much different from the woods between Munchkinland and the Emerald City.  Perhaps the branches overhead and the roots beneath her paws stretched themselves along in a more tangled fashion, the tree trunks a bit mossier and more bulging, the air heavier with the scent of rotting vegetation, the breeze a bit cooler and damper than she liked.

But why the silence?  The books had gone into great and gloriously lurid detail about the automobiles honking and guns firing and machinery grinding that the Reading World abounded in!  She’d expected jabbering mobs of furless bipeds lurching about, barely avoiding collisions with each other and nearly stomping on her tail!  Where were the explosions and the shouting and the airships crashing and the—?

“By my ears and whiskers!” a pleasant purr of a voice said behind her.  “To coin a phrase…”

Turning, Bungle saw a pair of unmistakably feline eyes and a set of grinning feline teeth regarding her from the shadow of a gnarled oak.  “And yet,” she said, peering more closely at the shadow, “by my own ears and whiskers, you have neither.”

The grin widened.  “Well, you can’t have everything.”  A large feline shape began darkening the empty space around the eyes and teeth until an actual cat sat there looking back at her.  “Where would you put it, for starters?”

Now that she could see the cat, Bungle wished that he’d stayed invisible.  Large and ungainly, he looked more like a creature stitched into the shape of a cat from leftover bits and pieces of other animals, and Bungle found herself fervently wishing that he wouldn’t prove to be as annoying as Scraps, the other patchwork person of her acquaintance.  “So where are we?”  she asked, hoping for a straightforward answer.

“Here.”  The cat, still grinning, patted the ground in front of him.  “Or rather, I’m here.”  He lifted his paw and waved it vaguely in Bungle’s direction.  “You’re over there.”

“And yet?”  Turning, Bungle began marching away through the woods.  “If you look very carefully, I think what you’ll in fact discover is that”—she pronounced the next three words slowly and distinctly, snapping her tail with each one—”I am gone.”

Leaving him quickly behind, she glared at the trees surrounding her for any sign of the Reading World.  The books, after all, had promised her a place of shabby, secret, concrete alleyways and buildings that metaphorically scraped the sky.  Obviously something had gone awry, so she needed to find an open spot where she could try casting the spell again.

The gray light beside her flickered and puffed into that same big, ungainly cat.  “Such atrocious manners you have!” he said, his grin unfaded.  “Aren’t you going to ask my name?”

Bungle sighed.  “Why would I care?”

“Excellent!”  He walked with an odd rocking motion, both his right legs moving forward, then both his left legs.  “You’re halfway to becoming one of us!”

She gave him a sidelong glance.  “And why would I want to do that?”

“He gave her that same abominable grin.”

He gave her that same abominable grin.  “Now you’re three-fifths of the way.”  His tail flicked to tap Bungle’s back.  “You were correct in stating that you shouldn’t care about my name since no one worth knowing here has anything but a title.  Titles, after all, show how important one is.  I’m the Cheshire Cat, and we shall call you the Glass Cat.”

If her fur had been able to bristle, it would’ve been doing so.  “I’m already called the Glass Cat,” she got out through clenched teeth.

“How fortuitous!”  His voice was still by far the best part of him, but Bungle found that it was becoming more grating by the moment.  “Then you’re three-quarters of the way to arriving here from your current state of there!”

“And yet?”  She didn’t even try to keep her ears up.  “I’m not at all interested in being here!  I’m interested in the real world, the Reading World beyond the public domain, the world from which all other worlds are sprung!  Not some turgid, dull, and dreary woods!”

“Tulgey,” the Cheshire Cat said.  “Anyone clever will tell you that’s the word you want, so I’m not surprised you’re unfamiliar with it.”  His unusual gait became a strut.  “Also, we made it up here ourselves.”

And that, Bungle was about to announce with multiple claws against the side of his fat, bloated face, was enough of that.  But before she could do more than stop and glare at him, a loud snuffling, snorting, and stomping began in the twilight of the tree canopy ahead.  It sounded like a large creature, Bungle thought, and sniffing the air brought a more disturbing note to the rotting vegetation smell: rotting meat.

To advance seemed foolhardy, and as much as she hated to admit it, this Cheshire Cat was her only source of information.  “Is that friend or foe approaching?” she murmured.

“Why, foe, of course,” he announced as jovially as ever.

Bungle snapped her head in his direction, and the ruby in her chest pounded to see that most of him had gone, only his infernal grin remaining.  “It’s your final test,” the grin said.  “To truly become one hundred percent here, you must slay the Jabberwock.”

The roar that followed blasted a wave of charnel stench over her so thickly, she could feel it spatter her beautiful clearness.  The force of it staggered her, though it did have the positive effect of blowing away every trace of the Cheshire Cat.  Regaining her footing in the muddy, mossy dirt took more effort than she would’ve liked, and by then something enormously tall and thin, all arms and legs and bat-like flapping wings, had lurched from behind a tree to tower over her.

She stared up at what she assumed to be the Jabberwock.  It stared down at her.  Then, with much flexing of toe and finger claws, its snaky neck lashed out in her direction, the bulbous head on the end of it roaring again, its giant, peculiarly rectangular teeth spread wide and plunging rapidly nearer.

Without allowing herself to think, Bungle leaped straight into the creature’s mouth, dug her claws into its tongue, and scrambled for the back of its throat.

Fortunately, its roar choked off almost at once: the sound, the stink, and the spray of it had already become tiresome.  Dashing past the beast’s inner teeth before circumstances could show her whether they were strong enough to shatter solid glass, Bungle didn’t pause, leaped the abyss of its gullet, and slashed into the foul flesh of its upper esophagus.

Hot, sticky fluid drenched her, but as she’d suspected, the monster’s thin neck proved to be its undoing.  Bungle’s claws tore straight through the sinewy tissue, and almost before she realized it, she was tumbling out into empty air.  Behind her, the Jabberwock bubbled and reeled and writhed before collapsing into a nearly headless heap that at least cushioned her fall when she dropped onto it.

Blessed silence reigned for a moment, then a voice sang out, “Oh, frabjous day!  Callooh!  Callay!”

Peering through the horrid redness encrusting her vision, Bungle saw the Cheshire Cat stretched grinning along the bough of a nearby tree.  “Listen carefully,” he said, “and you’ll next hear a sound that can only be described as ‘chortling.'”

For an instant, she considered reacting in an uncouth fashion.  But instead, she pressed the pads of one forepaw to the red stone around her neck and let herself concentrate on the sweet fragrance of the palace, on its many sunbeams and padded little nooks, on Ozma’s lovely face.

A hum rang through her glass, and a puff of clean air—and more interestingly, a puff of clean light—shivered over her.  The woods whisked away like a morning fog, and Bungle’s next breath smelled the way it was supposed to smell, everything around her properly green-tinted and warm.

* * *

“Bungle!”  Ozma sprang from her throne, dismay filling her at the sight of the Glass Cat dripping with reddish, brownish goo.  “Guards!  We need fresh towels here at once!”

Not waiting for them, she swooped down upon Bungle, bundled her into the trailing ends of her gown, and began wiping the filth away as best she could.  “Are you all right?  What happened?  Why did you return so quickly?  Was it truly awful?”

“It was… disheartening,” Bungle said, but that she wasn’t fussing or hissing or trying to wriggle free told Ozma a great deal more than the cat’s words did.  “I’m fairly certain I didn’t reach the Reading World, but the place I went to, well, I’d rather not return there.”

“Indeed,” came a very familiar contralto voice.

“Glinda!” Jack Pumpkinhead called, and Ozma looked over to see Glinda the Good herself reclining on a gold-embroidered sofa that only appeared in that part of the room whenever the sorceress visited.  “You’re just in time for supper!” Jack continued.  “Jellia Jamb’s making cheese chowder!”

Glinda inclined her head toward Jack.  “I happily accept your invitation.”  She shifted her smile, and Ozma as always thought of a lake, its placid surface giving no hint about what currents might be running beneath.  “The public domain is a wild and unpredictable place, Bungle, and very few are those who find their way through it to the Reading World beyond.”

Bungle’s ears perked under Ozma’s ministrations.  “I find it interesting, witch, that you didn’t say ‘few are we who find our way through.‘”

“Alas.”  Glinda sighed, and even though Ozma was very carefully not looking at her, she could nonetheless feel the sorceress’s gaze like an itch along the side of her face.  “I’ve been forbidden from making the attempt.”

“Forbidden?”  Bungle went still, then her wide eyes turned toward Ozma’s.  “It is you behind the cover-up.  You’ve been to the Reading World, and you want no others to know the truth.”

“Bungle,” Ozma began, though she really had no idea what she was going to say next.

Thankfully, the glass cat’s squirming interrupted her, and Ozma once again let her go, let her spin away to thump her paws onto the throne room carpet.  “How could you?” Bungle spat.  “I trusted you!”

“Please!”  Holding up her stained gown in one hand, Ozma waved the other at Bungle, the cat’s glass still befouled with blood and mud and who knew what else.  “You’ve seen for yourself how horrid it is out there!  And you got nowhere near the Reading World!  Didn’t you say that?”

“In fact,” Glinda said, her tone as measured as always, “looking at the outlines of the spell—”  Pages crinkled, and Ozma glanced over to see the sorceress leafing through a large and grimy book that had appeared in her lap.  “I feel certain that you entered not only another fictional realm but also a fictional work within that fictional realm: a piece of writing read by one of the characters.”  She looked up, her smile placid.  “The parameters here are apparently designed to send the caster in entirely the wrong direction to reach the Reading World.”

Bungle’s eyes widened, then narrowed.  “I find myself wondering who exactly constructed that spell.”

Glinda shrugged.  “A large number of the books in my library are the sort for which proper provenance simply cannot be established.”

“Fine.”  Bungle turned for the throne room doors.  “It’s the only spell I’ve got, however, so I’ll just have to try it again, won’t I?”

“Wait!”  The word tore out of Ozma, ripped away scabs and sliced freshly along the tracks of long-knitted scars.  “Please, Bungle!  We… we’ll come with you if you’ll just… just wait!”

The cat paused, and Ozma almost sobbed with relief, not letting herself think about what she’d just said.  As long as Bungle didn’t leave…

A clattering beside her, and something as light as the uppermost branch of a tree draped itself across her back.  “Father?” Jack asked, his voice close to her ear and unusually quiet.  “Hunger has obviously overcome you.  But fear not!  It’s very nearly supper time!”

For all that it wasn’t funny, Ozma had to laugh, had to wrap her arms around the pumpkinhead’s narrow frame and press her face into his green coat.

At that moment, footsteps thundered outside the throne room, courtiers rushing in with steaming, jade-colored towels.  Furious scrubbing commenced, and after a remarkably brief time, Bungle, Ozma’s gown, and the spots on the carpet had resumed their regular tints and lusters.

The attendants bowed themselves out, and Ozma, seated once more upon her throne, finally let her gaze meet that of the Glass Cat, her nearly transparent tail curled about her paws.  “You were saying?” Bungle asked into the sudden silence.

Glinda laughed and stretched.  “Yes.  You’ve got me all interested now.”

And if Glinda’s smile made Ozma sweat, the sorceress’s laugh made her wish she could’ve spent the entirety of her life as an ignorant boy named Tip.

An impossibility, of course, and Ozma’s sigh felt as though it were coming up from her ankles.  “When Oz first entered the public domain, I took it upon myself to investigate it and the Reading World beyond.”  She couldn’t stop a shiver, but she managed to keep the memories from flooding her.  “I didn’t care for it, and I forbade the only other one of my subjects who possessed the ability to visit from doing so.”  She nodded to Glinda.  “Enforcing this order, however, has been a task I would describe with the phrase ‘tiger by the tail.'”

Ozma then beheld the rarest of sights: her friend, mentor, and confidante blushing.  “Still,” Ozma went on, breathing in and breathing out, “now that a second feline’s involved, it might in fact be best to… to make a proper expedition.”  She closed her eyes.  “I can neither stop the clock from ticking, nor can I let fear rule my life.  And for showing me that, I thank you both.”

Opening her eyes, she let her temper rise a bit.  “But I don’t much appreciate being manipulated this way by my most trusted advisor.”  She shot Glinda a sharper glance.  “Or would you have me believe that Bungle just happened to stumble upon the exact set of books necessary to set this chain of events into motion?”

Glinda’s smile revealed nothing, of course.

But Bungle gave a loud snort.  “I’m inclined to call it happenstance.  A truly clever witch, after all, would’ve arranged for this to have happened much earlier.”

“Earlier?”  Jack started in his seat.  “But then we’d have to wait that much longer for supper!”

Her tail switching, Bungle glared.  “It’s most annoying, the way you continue harping so loudly about supper!  For you’re no more able to eat than I am!”

Again, Ozma felt most keenly the pumpkinhead’s inability to blink.  “But everyone’s together chatting at supper!” he said.  “And that makes it the loveliest time of any day!”

Standing, Ozma caught Jack by the hand.  “Very true, my friend.”  She reached her other hand out to Glinda and couldn’t help beaming when the sorceress rose, stepped over, and took it.  “One might also be tempted to observe, especially in light of Bungle’s recent experience, that there’s no place like—”

She let Bungle’s hiss cut her off.  “Finish that sentence,” the Glass Cat said, brandishing her claws, “and I shan’t be responsible for my actions.”  Her nose in the air and her tail aloft like a flag, Bungle began marching away along the grass-colored carpet.

Ozma laughed, and the thought occurred to her that the mistake she’d made the last time she’d ventured into the public domain and beyond was going alone.  Nodding to the sorceress on one side and the pumpkinhead on the other, she followed Bungle out of the throne room and toward the dining room.

 

* * *

About the Author

Michael H. Payne’s stories have appeared in places like Asimov’s SF magazine, a half dozen collections from FurPlanet, and 10 of the last 11 annual Sword & Sorceress anthologies, a run that includes the Ursa Major Award winning “Familiars.”  His novels have been published by Tor Books and Sofawolf Press, and he’s posted 11 pages of webcomics to various sites for the past 15 years even though he doesn’t draw very well.  He clerks at the local library, sings and plays guitar at the local Catholic church, hosts a Sunday afternoon radio program at the local university, and therefore rarely gets more than about 10 miles away from the house he’s lived in for more than 40 years.  Check hyniof.com for further particulars.

by Mark Mills

“Don’t waste your time with such foolishness,” the mask snapped. “A frog face isn’t real art. You have the perfect model before you.”

Several years ago, a certain gardener tied a decorative stone mask to the branches of a willow tree. The mask hung slightly askew, causing the lower half to fill with water after storms. Insects and birds drank and took leisurely dips in the deep chin during hot afternoons.

One day after a particularly strong downpour, rain so weighed down the mask that it dropped into a puddle of mud. There a tree frog happened upon it and laid her eggs.

“Well,” thought the mask. “Such desecration is hardly fitting for a work of art.”

The mask liked to think of itself as a religious icon, set in the tree as an offering to God, when actually it was only a bad birthday present from a wealthy but senile aunt, put in a tree to get it out of the house. At first, the mask grumbled about the frog eggs, denouncing them as personal insult, but as it muttered, it came to consider itself to be a model teacher, the perfect molder of young minds.

When the tadpoles hatched, the mask was waiting and spoke, not soft baby-talk, but stern, solemn stuff that it believed would build character.

“Now then, my polliwogs, we’re going to have to set a few ground-rules,” the mask informed them. “I’m not claiming to be infallible but I’ve seen more of the world than any of you have. There’s nothing I can do if you refuse to take my advice, but I would be pained if one of you did something foolish and got yourself hurt out of it.”

None of the tadpoles said anything for a long while. “Are you our mother?” one finally asked.

“No, frogs lay their eggs and abandon them. That is the way of the world.”

Although the mask knew nothing about being a tadpole, it constantly told them how to act.

“Don’t waste your time swimming with your tail. It won’t be around for long” and “Enjoy breathing under water while you can. Soon you’ll be out with the kingfishers and raccoons. What a living nightmare that will be… for as long as you stay living.”

The tadpoles knew no other life but that of the mask’s nagging. Life is strange for a little amphibian changing from a plant-eating, water-breathing, legless and tailed creature into a frog. When they lost their tails, they crawled from the water, expecting to be without the mask’s commands as well.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” The mask waited until the last had emerged.

“We’re going to climb and eat bugs and peep and mate. In that order. We are tree frogs, after all.”

“And what about me? Are you all going to forget about me after all I’ve done for you?”

All but one of the frogs stopped and turned around. That single frog leapt into the bushes and never saw the others again, but the rest of them clamored about the edge of the mask.

“Well, what should we do?” asked the boldest.

This was the mask’s crowning moment. “I want you to make faces.”

An easy request to a frog– they twisted their mouths, stuck out their tongues, and bulged their eyes even farther.

“No, not like that,” the mask snapped. “I mean art.”

“Art?”

“I want you to paint, to sculpt, to carve into stone.”

The little tree frogs said nothing. Their feet were made for jumping, climbing, and even sticking to windows, but carving into stone was a bit much to ask.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to,” one of the frogs stuttered. “I think, maybe, we ought to go catch some bugs.”

“Poppycock!” the mask thundered. “I’ll have none of that backsass! Listen to me. I will teach you. You, with the birthmark on the belly, fetch us some twigs. And you with the brown eyes, gather some colored dirt. Everyone else get pebbles, as large as you can carry. And think faces!”

Tree frogs are a trusting species and did as the mask commanded. They returned with huge quantities of wood, soil, and rock, more than nature ever intended a tree frog to lug.

“Careful, careful,” the mask sputtered as one of the frogs knocked over a pile of pebbles. “These are your supplies. Now get to work.”

From his position in the mud, it was difficult for the mask to supervise the frogs’ progress but it did keep a sharp eye for the unorthodox.

“You with the leaves! What are you doing?”

“It’s a frog’s face,” it replied. “It needs to be green.”

“Don’t waste your time with such foolishness,” the mask snapped. “A frog face isn’t real art. You have the perfect model before you.”

By and large, most of the frogs created faces that were quite crude but clearly modeled after the mask. It pretended to be surprised. “Oh, especially good,” it raved over images that left out his dents and scratches.

“Look upon your work, my children,” the mask exclaimed as the tired frogs prepared for bed that morning (for tree frogs are nocturnal). “Know that all that see it will frolic and rejoice.”

The mask’s words were perfectly true. Insects of all sizes and orders flew above the frogs’ gallery, working themselves into frenzied aerial orgies without the specter of death by amphibian tongue to cloud their merriment. Of the artwork, they gave no notice.

It was the gardener who became the frogs’ harshest critic.

“What’s all this then?” he shouted when he stepped in the sculptures. He kicked at faces and rubbed them between his fingers, wondering at the possibilities of extraterrestrial origins. “Must have something to do with all the damnable bugs,” he finally decided and sprayed poison all about the yard.

The poison upset the delicate balance of life within the garden. When the famished frogs ate the toxin-covered insects, they died almost instantly. True, most insecticides are not so deadly but then again, most are not afflicted upon frogs who have been kept up all night, creating folk art.

The few who survived were devoured by a garter snake who wandered by and the mask was later sold at a garage sale for less than a dollar. The garden was a still and solemn place for a long time to come.

Eventually the single tree frog who had fled the mask’s rule returned to gaze upon the site of his childhood. He’d become a great singer, so skilled that snakes and raccoons gave him safe passage.

“Frogs don’t sculpt,” he whispered up to the ghost of the mask, but there was nothing in the tree to hear him except a few juicy caterpillars, and he made short work of them.

 

* * *

About the Author

This turtle is named Isabella.

A Cincinnati resident, Mark Mills teaches composition, literature, philosophy, and film studies at Indiana Tech University and Chatfield College. He has published work in Tor.com, Grievous Angel, Short Story America, and several other publications. He has worked on and appeared in several low budget movies, including Satanic Yuppies, Live Nude Shakespeare, Chickboxin’ Underground, Zombie Cult Massacre, and Uberzombiefrau. He currently is occupied with his family, a large number of animals, and many unpublished stories.

 

 

 

 

by Voss Foster

“And as the mock death took over, the Hollow was gone, and he once again found himself ensconced in the Crossing, staring at the sky and waiting for more truths to be revealed in this space between breath and rot.”

Light. Beauteous, dappled light filtering through autumn leaves. SleekClaw allowed the impotent brightness to pass over his voluminous gray coat as he waited for something to appear to him. It would, in time.

There. Yes, yes, off to the right, on the very edge of that eyeless vision, the sight above sight of the Crossing. The leafy treetops parted to reveal stars, gleaming in a sky too bright to ever allow them. They danced and twinkled, and SleekClaw took their meaning, piecing it together as naturally as curling his long, bald tail around the branches of the oak trees.

The stars that were not stars played out scenes of potentiality, but SleekClaw was not a joey, had not been for some years now. He filtered the chaff and found the true meaning, the message that lay in that interstitial space between breath and the rot. He saw the jaybirds at their nest, cornflower bright and tittering over eggs… just eggs.

In a snap of the universe, SleekClaw was dragged from the Crossing, back to his true body and the sweltering heat. His pink nose twitched in the too familiar aromas of warm dust and damp decay. Yes, yes, he had returned from the Crossing once again, and now lay curled around himself in the pose of mock death, his mouth dry from hanging open.

He slowly shook himself to awareness, and the blue jays stood back, waiting for him to speak. Yet the Crossing clung to SleekClaw this time. The sorrowful prophecies always did, dragging on his fur like heavy downpour. He glanced around at the others gathered in the Hollow, the massive white oak long ago rotted away from the inside. The church of the Crossing.

Other possums—BlackSnout and MangleEye and FairWhisker closest of them all—delivered news, while some of the younger prophets still lay stiff in the thrall of the Crossing, the mock death, with serpents standing by to help interpret their visions, teach them eventually to read the stars for themselves. Tiny blue beetles off in the distance catered to tiny querants, slugs and snails and other beetles in less brilliant hues.

Finally, SleekClaw raised himself to all fours and locked eyes with the female jay. “Apologies, TornTail.” SleekClaw’s voice was weak and bristly with thirst. “Your clutch will see no sunlight this cycle.”

Her neck feathers ruffled, and her mate StoneBeak nuzzled his head against her throat. Neither said a word or made so much as the faintest twitter as they departed the Hollow.

“Are you well, SleekClaw?”

A sinuous voice raised his fur to standing, and SleekClaw turned to see a two-foot long rope of scales, onyx and obsidian and jet. He nodded slowly to the high priestess. “I am in better straits than TornTail and StoneBeak, your grace.”

What in all of creation had brought InkScale from her den to speak with him of all possums?

“The news you deliver, it is never easy. But rest easier knowing TornTail was aware of the answer.” InkScale’s forked tongue flicked in and out as she paused, and her coal dark eyes went hazy. “She came seeking a hope she knew was not there. You have told her nothing she did not know, but merely confirmed the fear she dared not face alone.”

“The Crossing reveals no lies.” SleekClaw nodded. “Did you have need of me, your grace?”

“I came simply to make the rounds. I was needed in the Hollow today as it was.” The tip of her tail waved gently back and forth, kicking up tiny, broken fragments of dried leaves. “And sometimes, even one as experienced in the Crossing as you may struggle to deliver the harshest of news. It would not be unreasonable to think you may need support.”

“Thank you for your kindness, your grace.” SleekClaw scampered to the nearby cistern and drank his fill before returning to InkScale. “If there is nothing more, your grace, I must make another Crossing.”

“Twice in one day?” Another flickering exit of the tongue as those shining black eyes fixed dead on him. “You have recently turned three, SleekClaw. Perhaps it is best to slow and allow the younger among your colleagues to absorb the brunt of the work. So many Crossings for one so old… you risk never returning.”

“My bloodline lasts long, your grace.” He failed to mention this would be his third Crossing of the day, not his second. But it was true that he likely had more years to play with than the average possum. His mother turned to rot at seven, his father nearly equaling her. “I’m far from the inevitable rot.”

InkScale hissed with what passed for a laugh among the serpents. “Well, do not be foolish. After this, please see yourself home. You are too respected and skilled and sought-after a possum to see rot for your stubbornness. There could be riots in the forest at your passing.”

“Of course, your grace.” He had no other appointments that day, anyway. But as she slithered away, SleekClaw let his mind wander: what appointment did she have in the Hollow this day? For FlameTail, king of the hawks and commander for the guard? Or for JadeEye and the other fish?

Possums spoke to the individual, to the household. They could prophecy births and deaths, fortune and famine, travel and solitude. But InkScale and the other serpents?

The Crossing revealed to them the greater machinations of the forest, and the world at large. Far too great for a mere possum to comprehend.

The arrival of SleekClaw’s next querant, a steel-gray squirrel called StormPaw, pulled him from his own thoughts. He raised his tail and flicked it to signal old MottleTail. No skill for the Crossing himself, he aided those who could venture into the realm of prophecy.

SleekClaw and StormPaw exchanged niceties until MottleTail gave the signal. SleekClaw nodded. “Please stand behind me.”

StormPaw scampered that way and, once he was safely out of the way, SleekClaw nodded and MottleTail leapt, all gnashing fangs and tearing claws.

Fear chilled through SleekClaw’s veins. It stopped his heart and made his body rigid. And as the mock death took over, the Hollow was gone, and he once again found himself ensconced in the Crossing, staring at the sky and waiting for more truths to be revealed in this space between breath and rot.

* * *

SleekClaw padded his way home after that third Crossing. He’d been able to deliver better news to StormPaw, that his mate would find her way back home within the week after being missing. She was not prey. She was not a victim of humanity. She was injured, and would require care. But breathing and heading home.

It was the heat of summer, thus the light remained bright and full up above, SleekClaw stopped at a nearby stream to wash his paws and face in the cool stream, and once more drink his fill. Tomorrow would be simpler. Tomorrow, he had but one Crossing scheduled. Tomorrow, perhaps, his thirst would not be so unslakable.

Whatever he said to the high priestess, he was more and more aware of his own mortality with each Crossing, more worried each time the jolt of fear, the threat against his person, sent him into the rigid mock death. Eventually, the death was not mock. The rot was truly inevitable for every living creature, even InkScale herself.

SleekClaw moved back from the water and went for his tree. Not far, now. He rested in a hollow twenty feet up. A comfortable, secluded home. Being as skilled as he was in navigating the Crossing, he was able to keep it secure with the odd favor to the hawks and eagles who guarded the treetops.

His nose caught something on the air, something washed in filth. And a moment later, gleaming talons swooped from the sky. Black. Sharp.

Aimed for his head.

Fear sent SleekClaw rigid on the ground, and he didn’t even have time to register the thud of his body before the Crossing faded into him. His panic was immediately buried beneath too much training.

There were no leaves here, and there was no bright sky. Endless lapis filled his vision, twinkling with a hundred, a thousand stars. SleekClaw’s eyes could not hope to follow each one through its dance. The Crossing… no, it had never done this to him before. No being ever breathing could possibly comprehend this much, could possibly piece it all together. No serpent, not even the high priestess herself. Not even the distant and fabled horned creatures, the fainting, four-legged ones to the west. Supposedly greater even than the high priestess, able to prophecy the fate of the universe all at once… but surely even they could not see the answer in this cacophony of light.

Surely… yes, yes, SleekClaw was not in the Crossing. SleekClaw was caught in the rot, for it would take the eternity only afforded by death to read these stars, to garner the truth of this prophecy.

He floated weightless for a moment, or a minute, or an hour, or a year. What was time? But slowly, surely, the dance and twinkle of those stars in the dark above began to coalesce. Could SleekClaw have cried, he would have. Could his fur have stood on end, it would have.

This was glory. At least as he succumbed to the great and inevitable rot, SleekClaw knew the forest would thrive. Ignored by humans. Allowed to flourish for… for a long time. Longer than SleekClaw could see. Beyond the rattle of his last breath.

What would have been his last breath, before today.

Finally, with the message clear in his mind, SleekClaw closed his eyes.

His bones ached. His skin was tight. His throat was ragged… yet he drew breath.

Faster than he’d moved in a month, SleekClaw scrabbled to his feet. That was the Crossing. Not the rot. Yes, yes, it was a sure thing, no other explanation even as his mind fought against it. He had been in the Crossing. He had been… not in his own Crossing. Not in any possum’s Crossing, with leaves to obscure the vision of the sky above. And certainly not in the infinitesimally insignificant crossing of the blue beetles. They could no more comprehend the vast vault of the sky than any higher creature could comprehend them.

This… no. No. SleekClaw would not even think it out in the open forest. He scurried to his tree, all notions of the attack and the fear washing away from him in the face of some newer, greater, more insidious notion. Yes, yes he was lucky to have survived… but left with this new weight hanging from his throat.

He slipped into his hollow and allowed the shadows to hug around him… and only then did he dare to think the blasphemy, to consider… to consider that perhaps he had seen the Crossing of the serpents. The Crossing of InkScale herself.

* * *

Morning saw SleekClaw not at the Hollow, but wending his way through the underbrush toward the edges of the forest, toward the dens of the serpents. Fewer trees allowed for more sunlight to stream in so they might warm themselves in the summer sunlight, and build their dens in the softer earth. As SleekClaw rounded a smooth, speckled stone, he caught sight of half a dozen of them all sunning before the opening of the day.

Fear rose in SleekClaw. His instincts told him to flee. But instead he padded forward, careful to make as little sound as possible, until he came across the slash of night that was the high priestess.

He scratched a smooth, shiny claw against the flat stone she stretched across. “Your grace?”

Slowly, InkScale twisted her head around to face him. “SleekClaw. What would drive you into our patch of the forest?”

Her timbre and the coal-eyed stares of her kindred drove SleekClaw’s fur to stand on end. This was not a place for any possum, and certainly not one never requested. Still, he had made the journey, and to turn back now… no, no he needed to speak with the high priestess post haste. “I experienced a Crossing last night, in the wild, after I had left the Hollow.”

“Were you injured?”

“No. Sore from the fall to the ground.” He snuffled and kept his head down, hiding his eyes from the too bright glare of direct sunlight as best he could. “I needed to speak with… someone who would know better. I could think of no one more capable of assisting in my interpretation of this than your grace.”

“An unsanctioned Crossing?” Lazily, she slithered around to give him more direct attention. “Well speak, then. What was seen when the leaves parted?”

SleekClaw swallowed down a knot of trepidation so the words might have room to slip free. “Your grace… there were no leaves. There was only sky. Sky and a thousand stars to interpret.”

The hair on SleekClaw’s back stood on end once more. He felt the serpentine gaze of a dozen serpents upon him, prophet and warrior alike, and the distant rattle from one of them nearly sent SleekClaw into another unsanctioned Crossing.

“Are you not mistaken?” InkScale spoke slowly, carefully, never removing her eyes from SleekClaw. “Surely you don’t mean to imply that you saw no leaves at all.”

“Your grace, I would never deign to deceive you or any serpent in this forest.” No, no he couldn’t imagine it. Even if it meant his head between curving fangs, lying to the high priestess about what he had seen… the prophecies of the Crossing were for the good of all inhabitants in the forest.

“The possum, he speaks blasphemy.” RustBelly, a massive copperhead, whispered behind SleekClaw. “A possum is not gifted with such visions. This one has lost his touch for the Crossing, perhaps. And should be retired.”

“To say such things, RustBelly.” The high priestess slid from her rocky perch. SleekClaw resisted the urge to flinch back from her sudden closeness. There was something sinister to the slither of her tar-dark body, the constant flickering of her forked tongue, the unbreaking eye contact she held with him even as the tip of her tail finally slid free from the stone. “SleekClaw is a possum, but to suggest that one so accomplished at traversing and interpreting the Crossing would lose his faculties in less than a single day? Perhaps you are unaware of this fine possum’s history.” She whipped her head around and shimmied past SleekClaw, climbed halfway up onto RustBelly’s stone. Her tone dripped with more venom than even RustBelly’s own bite. “SleekClaw has advanced beyond the need of interpretation from the outside. At three, he performs multiple Crossings in a given day. As a joey, he foresaw the next three litters of his mother with striking accuracy.” Her tongue flickered, barely glancing along RustBelly’s snout. “There are many things in this forest. Do not be so quick to judge a… fluke as blasphemy.”

She spun back around and wrapped her tail sinuously around SleekClaw’s middle. Just for a moment before letting him go. Intended to be comforting or reassuring, but SleekClaw’s mouth tasted of bitterness all the same. She was no constrictor… but she could surely distract him long enough to sink her fangs into his flesh if she so desired.

Yet it passed, and InkScale locked eyes with him once more. “Come to the Hollow. As my guest. We will discuss this prophecy of yours.”

It wasn’t just the Hollow. No, no, SleekClaw knew from the hushed disbelief filtering through the dawn light what was meant: he had been invited to the high priestess’s own chambers in the great rotted oak.

Where fear had blossomed moments before, now pride burned bright beneath SleekClaw’s fur. “Thank you for the invitation, your grace.”

“Of course. What else to do with such a fine prophet as you?”

* * *

The chamber was large. Large enough for InkScale to stretch out to her full length and still not touch the farthest walls, even leaving room for SleekClaw’s own considerable heft. Artificial barriers had been constructed of spare bark, and various shiny human trinkets adorned the walls, gleaming and sparkling in the dappled forest light.

It was there SleekClaw recounted his prophecy for the first time, allowing the words to pass between his fangs. Sometimes in great, boisterous shouts of the glory of sunlight and food and fertility for all, but just as often in hushed whispers of safety. Safety from the threats of the past, the ravaging fires and great yellowed behemoths who tore down trees to be carted away by the humans.

The following years would be hallmarked by prosperity for all. “That is the prophecy I received, your grace. In the leafless Crossing, told by the dance of a thousand stars.”

There was silence for one too many beats of SleekClaw’s heart before she finally responded. “This is good news you bring for the forest, SleekClaw. While I cannot say for certain why the message was gifted to you above all serpents, this is heady with joy.” Yet her voice remained demure and monotone. “We will make the announcement soon.” For just a moment, SleekClaw could have sworn he saw the fringe around her head flare, but no, no. Surely a trick of the shadow against her black scales.

“Of course you understand that we will make the announcement, SleekClaw. The serpents. Myself, namely.”

What? “I’m afraid I don’t understand, your grace. It was my prophecy, and there are dictates—”

“SleekClaw. Dear SleekClaw. You are becoming wise to the burden of the serpents. In that cobalt sky, studded with diamonds beyond what one can ever hope to count… those are the forest’s prophecies. They must be revealed and interpreted for the good of the forest. No serpent, not even myself as high priestess, can claim ownership of such messages. Not in the way a birth or a death may be claimed by you and your kind.”

“Forgive my ignorance, your grace, but if there is no ownership, why would my prophecy be delivered by the serpents?”

“Who would trust such a message coming from a possum? No one will believe a word of it.” She nuzzled her snout against his and whispered cloyingly in his ear. “You are unique among possums for receiving this, but with that uniqueness comes an even greater burden than what the serpents must bear. You are alone in the world, dear SleekClaw, and that isolation is both curse and blessing.” She pulled back and, just for another moment, he caught that momentary flare around her head again. “Allow me to take some of this heavy mantle thrust upon you and deliver the news. Otherwise, you will be hounded by the forest as a whole. And I dread what your fellow possums may do to you if they find out the Crossing has favored you above all others. You have seen the damage such razor bites may inflict upon flesh. A gruesome way to end things, when you could have breathed long and been truthful.”

“They would not attack, your grace.” No, no they wouldn’t. He would be lauded. He would be the first among the possums to finally reach the highest heights. No serpent, surely… but the possum above all possums.

“Have we not seen it happen time and again, SleekClaw? Jealousy is an ugly thing. After all, MangleEye was not always called MangleEye. In his youth, he took down an invading serpent all on his own. But it was no serpent who scratched and chewed his eye from its socket. That came from the possums. Jealous, and seeking a way to deflate his ego after such success.” She unsheathed her tail from the folds of her body and, once again, wrapped it gently around SleekClaw’s middle. “I dare not imagine what they would do to you, should this get out.”

SleekClaw would not be allowed to let loose his prophecy. His body chilled at the notion, and then chilled further at his own reaction. Perhaps he was just a jealous little possum with no understanding of this great new burden. But still prophets always delivered their own messages from the Crossing.

But when he made to object, no breath would enter his lungs. InkScale continued to wrap his belly and his back, coiling tighter around him. But no… no, InkScale was no constrictor, and her tail was there in clear sight again. Bands of ivory and carnelian wrapped him. GildedSnow, a kingsnake. Yes, yes, there was no mistaking that pattern.

He scrabbled and gnashed, but she remained out of reach of any of his defenses. All the while, InkScale watched on, dark eyes fixed and tongue flickering.

There was no Crossing for SleekClaw to enter. Only blackness filled his vision.

* * *

SleekClaw never expected to awaken, yet he found himself in an unfamiliar, cool space. Earthen walls, no sunlight. Each breath tasted of soil and leaf mold and stale blood.

“You’re awake.”

At the sound of that voice, every memory rushed back to SleekClaw. He scampered away from the slowly clarifying head before him. “Your grace, I apologize for my insolence. The message should be delivered as you see fit, of course.” Anything to spare himself. She’d taken him to her den. No creature but a serpent entered the den of the high priestess and left intact. Perhaps he could take one singular serpent in combat. After all, MangleEye had.

But if he was forced to murder the high priestess in her den, the forest itself would be his enemy. And he was not old, but not a young possum either.

“Calm, SleekClaw.” InkScale did not approach. “I mean you no harm. My apologies for the… unfortunate events that unfolded in the Hollow. GildedSnow is a faithful guard and she… misunderstood one of my movements for a signal. She will be dealt with.”

SleekClaw believed not one syllable of those falsehoods. Not once had InkScale attempted to stop the attack. But he didn’t want to rot. “Apology accepted, your grace.”

“Are you well?”

Yes, yes she was manipulating him, smoothing the waters. And SleekClaw was happy to have them smoothed if it meant he scurried from her den with breath in his lungs. “I am, your grace.”

“Good. Please relax, dear SleekClaw. I mean you no harm. In fact… I have reconsidered my position. I have consulted with the Crossing… and perhaps it would be wise to allow you to deliver the prophecy. If you still would like to do so, of course. We are capable of keeping such a fine, unique possum as yourself safe.”

SleekClaw waited for something more to come, some other message to pass over those black scales. But no retractions. No admonishments. No prerequisites or cautions. “Is it to the will of the forest, your grace?”

“If the forest saw fit to send you this prophecy, then the forest must see fit for you to deliver this prophecy, yes? And of any message you could pass on, this is the least likely to incite trouble.” Her black form shifted in the darkness of the burrow. “Word has already spread of the remarkable possum. All who wish to hear will arrive at the Hollow at dusk to receive the word and behold… the great prophet who rose from the rabble.” She coiled herself up as she drew nearer. “And… well, those who are already speaking protest will be… handled.”

“Protest?”

“As I had warned you, not all possums are gracious creatures in the face of exceptionality. Many are already outraged at what they see as a slight by one of their own. But I assure you, you have our protection.”

No, no, it didn’t sound right. Not the possums he knew. Not BlackSnout or FairWhisker or PearlFang or any of the others. SleekClaw would not allow such belief of his brothers and sisters to take hold. Not here, not anywhere. “Your grace, if I could speak with them before visiting the Hollow, I may be able to communicate with them. Such… lowly matters are best delivered by a possum.” Deprecating his kin would be his shield against the fangs and the venom of InkScale and RustBelly and all the other serpents of the forest.

The high priestess inclined her head side to side for a long while before finally answering. “If you feel that is best, SleekClaw. But please do take care. You are very important to us. A mere possum receiving a prophecy of this magnitude… you are a beacon of hope to all the others. Even to the blue beetles. There is something beyond where they all are now, and that something is you.”

“Thank you, your grace. I will make the journey… and return to the Hollow before dusk.”

“See that you do, SleekClaw.”

* * *

The trees were all atwitter, and it took no time to hear from the birds and the squirrels and the other possums where to find the disgruntled among them. SleekClaw descended into a sinkhole and was met with a dozen of his kin… including FairWhisker and BlackSnout themselves.

But it was FairWhisker who scampered forward and spoke. “The anointed child deigns to pay us a visit.”

“I’ve come to speak to you.” With her here… it couldn’t be as InkScale insisted. “There is word that… you would all do me harm. I’m certain this is foolish.”

“Do you harm? Why ever would we wish you harm, the servant of the high priestess and all her trickery?”

“Trickery? I can assure you, I received the prophecy. I entered the leafless Crossing and saw the truth of what is to come.”

“No one is doubting your prophecy, SleekClaw.” She snuffled the air. “But you reek of the serpents. You’ve bought into all you’ve been told, even though you were seen being carried out of the Hollow limp. Not stiffly ensconced in the Crossing.” She snorted, sending up boring dust from the floor of the cavern. “We thought you would rot like the others who came before you, but come to find it’s worse.”

“What others? FairWhisker, what is this about?”

Murmuring from the other possums. She waited until they had finished before finally speaking again. “SleekClaw… each of us here has seen the leafless Crossing. Each of us has brought word to InkScale or RustBelly. And each of us was lucky enough to escape the inevitable rot.”

“Unlike the others.” BlackSnout’s deep rasp filtered from the crowd. “Twice as many as you see here before you brought word and found themselves a sumptuous feast for the serpents. Even those who could never so much as glimpse the Crossing fed upon the flesh of prophets.”

“We were spared only for convenience,” said FairWhisker. “Too many prophets disappearing all at once would push the bounds of suspicion too far.”

“I survived only because ThreePaw had vanished the day before and their bellies were too full.” BlackSnout turned back around and entered into the murmurs of the other possums.”

“Eaten or not, when all is done the high priestess delivers their messages as her own. Our messages.” FairWhisker’s voice softened, and the fine white filaments on either side of her snout drooped. “You are no better or worse than any other of us, breathing or rotting, yet here you are. You, ready to deliver a prophecy. You, already aristocratic among possums… exalted even further. Carried out by InkScale to quell any disquiet among the rest of us, to show the world that possums are equal, of course. So long as they are… socially acceptable.”

“This is not my doing, FairWhisker.” Could any of this be possible? Could the high priestess… yes. Yes, yes, SleekClaw saw it easily. Her venom could sedate, if not kill, and then the other serpents could do their own work with the unmoving body. Or GildedSnow could simply wrap the breath from their lungs. Either way, the feast remained the same. “SilverTail… was there ever a hawk attack?”

“Yes. From FireTail. On orders. She now rots for daring to reveal that the humans would come again and we would lose more of our own to their flames.”

SleekClaw squeezed his eyes shut. InkScale herself had delivered that message and been haled as a hero of the forest… again. Her warning minimized those who succumbed to rot.

But it was SilverTail’s warning.

“You understand why we can no longer remain silent?” FairWhisker’s voice was solemn, sober. “This has gone on longer than any one of us has drawn breath.”

SleekClaw looked around at them all… and he did. “What did the Crossing show you, FairWhisker?”

“Which time?” She turned around and headed back into the throng. “You are special, SleekClaw, but no more or less than any one of us. I can see you as you… but you are not unique to the serpents, no matter how sweetly they whisper into your ear. You are merely… respected… and useful.”

There were no more answers to be offered there, and SleekClaw was uncertain he would want them if they were available.

* * *

The Hollow rumbled with the gathering of the forest. Dozens and dozens of possums, hundreds of tiny blue beetles, jays and hawks circling above the felled tree, being brought news by smaller birds who could fit more easily inside the now packed Hollow.

On a pedestal of stacked twigs and branches, SleekClaw waited in silence for the sun to dip low.

InkScale twined around herself lazily. “Was your visit to the rioters fruitful?”

He didn’t miss their elevation from protesters to rioters. “I believe so, your grace.”

“Good. I hope this is peaceful for you. An announcement of such magnitude should not be marred by such disquiet.” She pulled close to him, close enough that SleekClaw could smell only the fresh blood of her last meal, and whispered so softly he could barely hear her over the sound of his own breath. “You, of course, would not be so foolish as to spread what you learned. I did tell you, the leafless Crossing comes with a burden. The good of the forest is all that is important. Sometimes, possum blood waters the roots of the trees. But to speak it… I’m certain such a fine possum as yourself can see the problem there. And remember how soft your underbelly is, and know that RustBelly’s venom is much more potent than mine… and FairWhisker much smaller and more delicate than you.”

“I am aware of all of these things, your grace.” Of course she knew what had happened in that sinkhole. Everything, even secrets, found their way back to the serpents at one point or another, and all serpents answered to the high priestess.

“Good.” She pulled back, her tongue flicking the air. “Then let us begin.” She slithered to the front of the pedestal and the Hollow immediately quieted. “I take it word of this event has spread far enough, the circumstances need not be explained: a possum has ascended to new heights, to new revelations from the Crossing. This is hope for all among us that we may improve beyond what could ever be thought possible.” She paused to let her own echo fade. “SleekClaw… devout and true and skilled SleekClaw… he has seen things of the forest that equal what I and the other serpents are known to deliver. And as is tradition, he reveals his prophecy from his own lips.”

The crowd erupted in noise again as she slipped back, and SleekClaw padded forward. But this time, the crowd did not stay quiet. There in the back, the other possums had gathered, and they shouted and scampered and made as big a cacophony as they could manage.

FairWhisker was not among them.

SleekClaw raised his voice as loud as he could manage. “Quiet, all. News of the forest is important… and it is good. For years, the forest will thrive.” But not the possums. Not under InkScale. Not under the serpents. “Fertile. Well-fed. Happy. Undisturbed.”

The other possums had quieted now… in no small part due to the presence of constrictors flanking them. Including GildedSnow herself, seemingly no worse off for her “mistake.”

SleekClaw swallowed everything he wanted to screech to the crowd, the truth in all the deception. There was no fighting this power, the sinuous shadow of a priestess behind him.

Not today… and not ever if he made a fool of himself and got FairWhisker eaten.

“This is my prophecy: we will prosper. We will prosper even after I rot in the ground… praise be to her grace InkScale, for surely she will lead us down this path.”

The crowd lapped his words like sweet honey from the hive. SleekClaw turned to leave.

The high priestess blocked his exit with her tail. “Well done, dear SleekClaw. I trust you will… work alongside me.” This time, it was no mistake or trick of light. Her head flared out, and it stayed flared. “Close.”

Close enough to be watched. Yes, yes, he saw her unspoken words. “Of course, your grace. Where else would I belong?” He could not fight this power. No one could fight this power.

But that was not a prophecy. That was not marked out in the dance of the thousand stars. Perhaps a thousand more possums would have to rot before it happened. Perhaps his very next Crossing would reveal the truth, that they could never leave the scaly grip of the serpents behind.

But for the moment… SleekClaw knew the reality of the Crossing. And he was palatable. By the grace of the high priestess, he was regal enough for the forest to accept, so long as she never rescinded her praise.

Acceptance was survival, and survival was the only chance for rebellion one day, should the Crossing permit.

For the moment… yes, yes, there was possibility in his newfound place among the venomous. Perhaps he would never utilize it. Perhaps he would take his last breath soon in an embrace of carnelian and ivory.

But perhaps not. And ‘perhaps not’ was all that remained to cling to.

 

* * *

About the Author

Voss Foster lives in the middle of the Eastern Washington desert, where he writes science fiction and fantasy from inside a single-wide trailer. He is the author of Evenstad Media Presents as well as the Office of Preternatural Affairs. His short work can be found across the internet, including Alternative Truths, Vox.com, and Flame Tree Publishing’s Heroic Fantasy. His work often focuses on issues of diversity and inclusion, and always with a lyrical bent. When not writing, he can be found cooking, singing, cuddling the dogs, and of course, reading, though rarely all at the same time. More information can be found at http://vossfoster.blogspot.com.

We churn through a chunky bit of news just before MFF 2019.

This episode is sponsored by Twin Tail Creations. Use coupon codes REDWOLF or BLUEFOX to save 15% on silicone products during checkout.

Download MP3

Link Roundup:

• Eurasian internet registry runs out of IPv4 subnets
  • Related Tweet
• Twitter to remove inactive accounts
• Cow VR
  • Tweet 1
  • Article
  • Tweet 2
• Logo publishes guide on how to be a gay pup
• Ash Coyote releases trailer for The Fandom 2019 Documentary
• Cards Against Humanity announces AI cards
• Defcon talk about cloning Telegram sessions
• Tweet meme about professional fields mentions furries
• Newly raised 12-4 bridge still opens cans
  • Crash Azarel Visits Bridgesona
• Stanley Parable puts out a new trailer blaming fans for a delay
• Cows don’t have fingers and can’t insult Devin Nunes

News:

• Dorsai Leaves Anthrocon
• Blucifer is Vandalized in Denver
• Murderer Says he Served his Life Sentence when Died in Hospital
• Jesus Phil Collins
• Arizona man charged with robbery for burrito heist
• Florida man tells police wind blew bag of cocaine into car
• Wild boar discover and snort £17,000 of cocaine in Tuscan forest
• Psilocybin As “Breakthrough Treatment” For Severe Depression

Emails:

• “An interesting question” – Voltage Lynx

[Live] Voreclosure

First off, our belated Thanksgiving gratitude to YOU, our readers. We hope to keep informing you for years to come! Now then… do you remember when we covered a graphic novel called Fuzzy Baseball, written and illustrated by John Steven Gurney? Well he’s back again in full color with Fuzzy Baseball 2: Ninja Baseball Blast. “Talk about away games! The Fernwood Valley Fuzzies will fly to the far side of the Foamy Sea to take the field against the Sashimi City Ninjas. This will be the first time any Big League Baseball team has faced a team from the mysterious Manga Baseball League.” The fight of many centuries is out there now in hardcover from Papercutz.

image c. 2019 Papercutz

Bandit follows up from the last montage with takes from BLFC ’17! SEE MORE AT: http://www.TheRaccoonsDen.com FACEBOOK: http://www.Facebook.com/TheRaccoonsDen TWITTER: http://www.Twitter.com/TheRaccoonsDen FURAFFINITY: http://www.FurAffinity.net/user/TheRaccoonsDen INSTAGRAM: http://www.Instagram.com/TheRaccoonsDen #TRDs8 #BLFC2017 #FurryFandom

Art by Alterkitten (Furaffinity / Twitter)

It’s right after Thanksgiving, and have you had enough stuffing? Want more?

Until 2014, there were few or no openly advertised, public-access furry fetish parties in the world. Then San Francisco got Wild Things at The Citadel, a BDSM dungeon club. (Wild Things is now Animal Farm.) It’s an opportunity to visit a licensed, safety-minded, full-time venue in the middle of the city. Any curious visitor can have a healthy, nonjudgemental experience of an often-hidden layer of the furry community. If the media ever mentions it, it’s either “Gross! Consenting adults are having sex!” Or, they collaborate with furries to spread coy PR and euphemisms to deny it exists. If it existed of course THEY don’t do it!

That meant no access unless you score a private invite from the right people for the special convention room parties. If you don’t know them, or you’re shy or worried about that setting, you just have to feel left out. But now you can visit a safe club for it. The popularity of it shows how unreal the PR can be.

So, what really happens here?

Everything. Got a murrsuit with a hidden SPH? Bring it and hide nothing. Have a partner whose kinks align with yours? Bring them, or come find a new one. Or, just come casually and enjoy the lounge part of The Citadel where nothing naughty is happening — just chatting, a counter full of snacks, and maybe, making friends with the person(s) you want to drag into the dungeon on a leash for a frisky good time.

Shy newcomers welcome! People who think they’re too clean-cut, you can come too, but don’t be surprised if you leave with stories of things you never thought you’d be caught doing!

Party like this:

• A dungeon full of gear and toys.
• Murrsuiters, pet players, and any animal costuming or gear are encouraged, with lockers and headless lounge.
• Safety supplies provided (house rules discourage going raw dog unless with your SO.)
• Lounge has lots of couches and chill space, with a full kitchen serving snacks.
• A light-up disco floor with DJ.
• Volunteers are needed for setup, cleanup, kitchen, and more. Want to help run demos?

Get involved, find friends, and volunteer:

• Animal Farm Telegram Chat
• Fetlife call for volunteers — free entry!
• Fetlife event page

Happy spanksgiving everyfur

— Dogpatch Press (@DogpatchPress) November 29, 2019

Remember All! We have an upcoming party!

Saturday, November 30, 2019
8:00 PM – 1:00 AM  

Location: SF Citadel – 181 Eddy Street, San Francisco

Cost: $25 cash at door, $26 credit card

We hope to see all you pet players, furries, trainers, and anyone that enjoys a fun night! pic.twitter.com/BiVXN1FhD6

— Animal Farm party (formerly Wild Things) (@AnimalFarmSF) November 7, 2019

Like the article? These take hard work. For more free furry news, please follow on Twitter or support not-for-profit Dogpatch Press on Patreon.

Our thanks to Changa Lion over at Furry.Today for letting us know about this: Mooneye Studios have recently released the game Lost Ember for the PS4 system. “Go on a journey as a wolf able to possess any animal you meet and [make them] her companion. Experience the contrasting stories of the fall of mankind and the lush life in the world that nature reclaimed.” Check out the preview over at the official Playstation web site.

image c. 2019 Mooneye Studios

Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3

Here’s Part 3 for yesterday’s article, which asked: If you could do a furry travel tour, where would you go? When I got invited to the Adult Swim Festival in Los Angeles for their second animation/comedy/music event, I added a side trip to the nearby Prancing Skiltaire house. That’s a shrine to cartoon animal art made by the founders of the first furry con, who open it to fans by the hundreds. It was all started by an invite from “Dr. Girlfriend.”

Fan video screening at the Prancing Skiltaire

House resident Changa showed parody videos where he recut Disney’s Zootopia to emulate iconic TV show openings. There’s a channel of them that goes with curating videos for Furry.Today, one of many projects run from the house including The Confurence Archive, InFurNation and the Ursa Major Awards.

What Dr. Girlfriend says about visiting:

Going to the “iconic” furry house was interesting. Rod gave Patch & I the “nickel tour” which was awesome! What stood out to me was the vast collection of animal characters, including: ceramics, plushies, anime, drawings, zines, videos & so much more.

They told me that they have furry parties every month that have gotten to around 300 people! Whoah. Also that the local In-N-Out restaurant banned the furries from congregating there because their patio was so small. Hehe. I know a little about being kicked out of venues (public spaces?) as someone who helps organize Bike Parties, which sometimes get into the thousands of bicycle riders having a dance party on the street.

Anyways, everyone was super friendly and they even had Christmas furry art up (before Thanksgiving, but who’s counting?) These guys are immersed in the culture, and there’s even a documentary coming out about the fur-dorks that I got a mini sneak peak of! Look forward to The Fandom in 2020!

The self-proclaimed “dorks” and originators of some of the first furry cons and Prancing Skiltaire house gave us an interesting and informative look into the heart & love & art that goes into a fandom. Also we got dinner together and it was delicious and full of great conversation and good vibes.

Director of ‘The Fandom’ Ash Coyote talks about visiting for a video shoot — look for a trailer launching this week on Black Friday!

Dr. Girlfriend mentioned that we got a look at the documentary that co-director Eric Risher, Chipfox and Ash Coyote have been at work on all year, after a successful $32,000 launch on Kickstarter. Ash is excited to have a trailer almost ready to show. She sent a few words about visiting the house before us, plus photos from the video shoot of Rod and Mark. Ash says:

When we first approached the story of our community’s history, it was a little hard to find a “ground zero” for the birth of the fandom. As with many subcultures, the concepts from which they are built tend to occur in unison and then coalesce into something bigger. This was very much the case with the furry fandom.

Starting in the late 1970’s, Mark and Rod played a pivotal role in the shaping of our early community, and laid the framework for a lot of our community as it exists today. They hosted furry parties at science fiction conventions since the mid 1980’s and put on the first furry con in 1989 (Confurence 0).

Mark and Rod are the grandparents of the furry fandom. They take center stage in our project, and help us to explore our origins in animation, art and community set to the backdrop of the Skiltaire House.

After-travel chat with a few good furs

Patch: Just did an awesome pilgrimage to the holiest shrine of furry.

Chipfox: They wanted shirts from us and I felt bad that we didn’t print extras >.<

Patch: I think they have enough furry stuff though i still brought them more. Maybe enough shirts will be demanded to make more.

Aris: Where is this??

Changa Lion: Oldest furry house that started in the 80s. Prancing Skiltaire in SoCal.

Arrkay: If someone had the funds to do a travel blog, what would the stops of the “furry pilgrimage” be? Prancing Skiltaire is the obvious place to start. At least one major con per continent? Japan’s fox themed new year or cat festivals?

Cosmo: You’d have to include Anthrocon as the oldest con still running. MFF as the largest. Eurofurence for the oldest in Europe. Japan cat festivals, Chinese New Year festivals might be a good shout too.

Arrkay: Are there major art installations of anthro statues or artwork hung in galleries?

Cosmo: Actually JMoF would be a good one to hit up on the way. I’d chuck the Greyfriars Bobby and Hachiko statues on for the feels angle.

Arrkay: Corporate vacation hellscapes like Disneyland?

Cosmo: See I was about to say that, but at the same time… while they’ve had an influence on furry, they’ve had enough exposure IMHO.

Arrkay: Are there any mascot museums?

Cosmo: The Mascot Hall of Fame? I’d like to see someone do a tour of old-guard furry artists and writers, the Terrie Smiths, TaniDaReals and Olvens of the world. Fandom history’s a big thing for me, I find it fascinating.

Dralen Dragonfox: I think that right now, there would have to be a visit to Toronto during a Kerfluffle or a Howl.

Arrkay: So far the furry pilgrimage would roughly be:

• Prancing Skiltaire
• Anthrocon (oldest running)
• MFF (Largest)
• Mascot Hall Of Fame (Indianapolis)
• Disneyland/costume heavy themepark
• Furry Gathering of China
• Furry Japan
• FurDu (Australia)
• Eurofurence
• South Afrifur
• Fox Festival New Year in Japan / Cat Festival Japan
• Alternative venue furry party (Toronto’s Kerfluffle or similar)
• Plus any cool statues/art installations or relevant museums.

Like the article? These take hard work. For more free furry news, please follow on Twitter or support not-for-profit Dogpatch Press on Patreon.

Roo and Tugs are joined by Peter New (voice of Big McIntosh on My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic), FableCharm, and Sonyalynn to discuss the conclusion of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic and the future of the MLP fandom. Will Bronies merge with furries, continue on, or both?





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Listen to Voyage of the Oeverwal! Catch Oeverwal on your favorite podcatcher or on Twitter! You can follow Peter on Twitter using @ActorPeterNew.



Register for BABSCon! It runs April 10-12, 2020.



Use the promo code TUGS or ROO for 15% off! (Pssst, that's way more than they normally offer!)

Use the promo code FAP to get 5% ON.

 
SHOW BONUS
Wondering where THE GAME went? It's right here! It's in FLAC format, so download and play!
SPECIAL THANKS

Peter New, voice of Big McIntosh and creator of Voyage of the Oeverwal. Catch Oeverwal on your favorite podcatcher or on Twitter! You can follow Peter on Twitter using @ActorPeterNew.
FableCharm, Chair of BABSCon
SonyaLynn, Director of VIP Relations at BABSCon
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MUSIC

Opening Theme: RetroSpecter – Cloud Fields (RetroSpecter Mix). USA: Unpublished, 2018. ©2011-2018 Fur What It’s Worth. Based on Fredrik Miller – Cloud Fields (Century Mix). USA: Bandcamp, 2011. ©2011 Fur What It’s Worth. (Buy a copy here – support your fellow furs!)
Space News Music: Fredrik Miller – Orbit. USA: Bandcamp, 2013. Used with permission. (Buy a copy here – support your fellow furs!)
Fifty Sheds of Grey: Kevin MacLeod – Spy Glass. Licensed under Creative Commons: by Attribution 3.0. Visit Incompetech for more.
Patreon - The Tudor Consort, Inflammatus, Creative Commons, 2010
Closing Theme: RetroSpecter – Cloud Fields (RetroSpecter Chill Mix). USA: Unpublished, 2018. ©2011-2018 Fur What It’s Worth. Based on Fredrik Miller – Cloud Fields (Chill Out Mix). USA: Bandcamp, 2011. ©2011 Fur What It’s Worth. (Buy a copy here – support your fellow furs!)

  S8E20 – Friendship is Over - Roo and Tugs are joined by Peter New (voice of Big McIntosh on My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic), FableCharm, and Sonyalynn to discuss the conclusion of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic and the future of the MLP fandom.

Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3

Here’s Part 2 of yesterday’s article, which asked: If you could do a furry travel tour, where would you go? It could include conventions, mainstream destinations, and special stops that a non-furry wouldn’t think of. When I got invited to the Adult Swim Festival in Los Angeles for their second animation/comedy/music event, I made it a mainstream AND fandom mini-tour, with a side trip to the nearby Prancing Skiltaire house. That’s a shrine to cartoon animal art made by the founders of the first furry con, who open it to fans by the hundreds. It was all started by an invite from “Dr. Girlfriend.”

Till next time, LA pic.twitter.com/oUvm6I1x0U

— [adult swim] (@adultswim) November 17, 2019

Festival review from Dr. Girlfriend:

The Adult Swim Festival in Los Angles was sooo much fun! I went with Patch (who was in fursuit) as Dr. GirlFriend from the Venture Brothers cartoon. I had a blast! He was the only one among thousands of goers who was fully fursuited, in his punk-rat suit, and much to my delight and laughter he got a lot of people asking if he was Chuck-E-Cheese (more like Chuck-E-Cheese’s evil twin).

One thing that stands out in my mind is when we both went to the bathroom, he was taking a whiz and someone told him, while he was in suit, “Nu-uh, we aren’t doing this in here”. Hahaha. Such a stigma with fursuits.

Another person said and pointed, “oh hell no!” , to which I quickly took out my laser gun from my garter belt and blasted him away. Other then those two haters, the festival was SUPER receptive to the giant furry rat. Multiple people came up and said they were furry too! There were even several people who recognized Patch from his blog (jeez, soooo popular… what? ever!) I’m not gonna lie, I spend hours upon hours on my costume and he still got more requests then me for pictures (jealous, not jealous).

The highlight of MY night was when someone had asked me where I bought my hat? Biiiiiitch – I made it!!  And that is one of the things I love about the furry community, that people put so much time and effort into their fursona/costume/cosplay/outfit/whatever you call it, that it is truly a work of art.

I loved dancing to music and getting to see a few of the creators of my favorite animations, like Dethklok/Metalocalypse, the new season premiere of Rick and Morty, and some Squidbillies live in action. Overall, it was a total success and we even got a picture together on the official Adult Swim twitter feed!

Posing with LA flavor, Drab Majesty band tee

Next stop: the holiest shrine of furry fandom.

The festival covered Friday and Saturday, then there was a full Sunday to visit the Prancing Skiltaire house, 40 minutes away in Garden Grove, CA.

Pure windows-down balmy-weather SoCal driving needed some vintage 1980’s New Wave tunes, like Missing Persons — Walking In L.A. (Fandom vibes: to break out on early MTV they booked their own shows and made their own outrageous Day-Glo makeup and clothes.)

Our hosts were Changa Lion, Rod O’Riley, and Mark Merlino (Sy Sable). This is Old Guard fandom — and I have to say after being at a high profile media event with attention on fursuits, these founders prove YOU DON’T NEED A SUIT TO BE FURRY.

Their front door led in to an Aladdin’s Cave of treasure. Shelves, bins, statues, and framed art of anthropomorphic creatures were stacked and showcased from floor to ceiling in every media imaginable, including dead ones that haven’t existed since the 1970’s.

They didn’t need more, but that didn’t stop me from bringing gift DVD’s I got in Prague of The Little Mole (AKA the Mickey Mouse of the Iron Curtain.) The foreign toons were received with gratitude and shock at the prices written in Czech crowns, until I said “that’s not US dollars!” I hope they join the rotation of animation played at their monthly house parties.

Changa showed us his elaborate fan parody videos, where he recut Disney’s Zootopia to emulate iconic TV show openings, like the X-Files or Moonlighting. The 2010’s CG graphics were copied onto VHS tape and back to digital, and dubbed over with vintage audio for a mind-bending Mandela multiverse effect. The same was done for Zootopia VHS tapes in clamshell cases with carefully simulated labels and stickers — artifacts fit for a Museum of Furry. The Confurence Archive is the closest thing online, curated by Changa from the treasures all over their house.

After a nickel tour by Rod, 5 of us kept talking into the night, including a walk for dinner at their nearby mainstay diner. For a future article, I got to ask Mark about how Second Life accommodated furries years ago (Linden Labs recently engaged me about new outreach for 2020.)

Some of the best talk was about the house’s place in fandom.

Their monthly parties had brought 300 people in the past. It became important to limit couch crashers when things got out of hand with 8 or more long-term stayers, and cars blocking driveways or bringing late night talking and drinking on the sidewalks. Now they say attendance may be closer to 65, give or take.

Mark had been told that the house was a long-time LGBT safe space that helped launch careers for dozens of past furry roommates including animators and tech pros. He said, “That wasn’t the point, but now that I think of it, that’s true!” They weren’t chosen to live there because of identity, but shared interest; the conscious interest just aligned with their nature. Just like when that nature is strong in the whole fandom.

The old label “lifestyler”, sometimes said negatively, was just people being themselves like you can see in how their nest is put together. I’m so grateful they open it this way for monthly partygoers and our visit.

• In the main room with Changa (he’s camera-shy) and Mark. Something jazzy was playing.
• Their collection has games, movies, fanzines, comics, guidebooks, science fiction paperbacks, and Manga sets since some were rare imports in the 1970’s.
• The plushie corner is full of things left after parties for years.

• Rod poses with Mark’s art of a critter on a 1982 Subaru (rainbow background is washed out.)
• Rod showed 1980′-90’s multi-genre guidebooks that worked like a “phone book of fandom”, where you could find which shops dealt “funny animal” goods, get mailing lists that were sold to fund the guides, or network with others before the internet.

• Look up above Mark: those are bins stuffed with furry comics. Every corner is set up for the treasure hoard.
• Rod occupies the executive command center for his In-Fur-Nation newsletter run since 1991.

• No space is left un-furred. I dug the Robin Hood figures (top right). Not shown: Mark’s Otter collection that won a prize at a fair for collectible displays.

• In Changa’s room, we watch a private work-print trailer for The Fandom documentary, in progress from Ash Kries, Eric Risher and Chipfox.
• Mark and Rod pose by video shot at the house for the movie not long before this visit.

Changa, Mark and Rod reminded me of about what furry fandom is about. Those roots can inspire new watchers with The Fandom documentary, which just finished its last shoot and is going to post-production for release soon. Look for news about it here soon. Tomorrow: more about furry traveling.

Like the article? These take hard work. For more free furry news, please follow on Twitter or support not-for-profit Dogpatch Press on Patreon.

From 2009 to 2019, this wouldn't have been possible without the support from all of you! To celebrate and give thanks for helping us reach this milestone, we've put together a quick video featuring a reunion of our cast! See more at: http://www.TheRaccoonsDen.com FACEBOOK: http://www.Facebook.com/TheRaccoonsDen TWITTER: http://www.Twitter.com/TheRaccoonsDen FURAFFINITY: http://www.FurAffinity.net/user/TheRaccoonsDen INSTAGRAM: http://www.Instagram.com/TheRaccoonsDen #TheRaccoonsDen #TRDs8 #FurryFandom

Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3

If you could do a furry travel tour, where would you go? Try some big conventions and mainstream destinations like Disneyland or the Mascot Hall of Fame, and some special stops that a non-furry wouldn’t think of. California has ones like the Prancing Skiltaire house, a shrine to cartoon animal art made by the founders of the first furry con, who open their house to fans by the hundreds.

A travel story wasn’t my plan when I got an invite from… let’s call them “Dr. Girlfriend”, to go to the Adult Swim Festival in Los Angeles on November 15-16, 2019. The opportunity just fell on me, so I made it a casual mini-tour including a stop nearby in Garden Grove, CA to visit the Skiltaire friends.

Dr. Girlfriend had tickets to the second live festival for Adult Swim, a now almost 2-decades old TV programming block for absurdist comedy and alternative animation. Cartoon Network hosts it at night while young audiences sleep, unless naughty kids are sneaking it (like I used to do for MTV Liquid Television). The leading show is Rick and Morty and it rarely has anything furry. But the show creators definitely know about us, and festival goers gave fist-bumps to a 6-foot rat scurrying among them. As “Patch Packrat” (I’m usually a husky dog) I was the only fursuiter in sight at the 22,000 capacity Banc of California Stadium.

Festival concept:

I’m not a huge fan of all Adult Swim shows (I’ve seen all Rick and Mortys and sampled others) but this multi-media mutation had me saying MORE PLEASE. The lineup had music acts tied to the TV shows, with rap, heavy metal, DJ/house, and the dancy, synthy, or darker side of indie rock. Live comedy sets had talent from their own shows and voiceover artists for animation. Animation screenings mixed with creator Q&A panels like you’d see at Comic Con. The live experience included games/rides and stadium-sized sound and lighting.

The geniuses behind it created more of a rock show/carnival vibe and top-down organizing, compared to furry cons with their focus on fan-led panels, small dealers, dances and dance comps, room parties, and personal art.  Even if this much larger event was media-centric, it was full of energy you don’t get from a film fest or animation industry event. And how much would you expect furries at a rap or metal show? This hybrid event is a killer place for a furry meetup!

I was surprised to be the only one strutting my stuff in fursona, although several stealth-furs high-fived me for being bold. Here’s what I got into.

It's been great out here! I would've suited if I could! @DogpatchPress #AdultSwimFestival #furryfandom pic.twitter.com/6vE0moQaGn

— jax (the only) (@the0nlyjax) November 17, 2019

Whee! pic.twitter.com/aSnEGH2Z81

— Dogpatch Press (@DogpatchPress) November 16, 2019

The music:

HEALTH was my main draw besides Dethklok because I like industrial rock, but it wasn’t a great start. It was early on Friday and the crowds were nowhere near the size it got later on Saturday. They filled a small corner of the stadium without much movement, while the band thudded on stage to try filling the void, but the emotionally-distant singing felt lost in the racket.  It wasn’t bad and made me bop a little but I’d prefer to see it in a dark cave instead.

DETHKLOK killed it. They made maximum use of the venue for their first show in 5 years. Brutal gore-toons splashed across jumbo video screens and blasted my eyeballs with shock editing. It included a couple of comedy breaks and super helpful read-along lyrics so you could laugh at the blurts of blasphemy from the singing. I only like small doses of death metal (Pungent Stench <3) so words and cartoons filled in what I’d miss by just having my ears pummeled. “Impeach God” had a hilarious live debut. The crowd wasn’t the most active, but it was OK with the 110% effort on stage.

RAPSODY was a rapper with good danceable beats and conscious lyrics that charmed the crowd. The LA crowd was different from who I’d mingle with in the SF Bay. The music made it feel good to be there, and other people must have felt the same with the air getting smoky. I barely listen to rap but this won me over.

JAMIE XX did a stellar DJ set of dance/house music that made me do a beeline to the front to make it my personal furry rave. Here too the crowd was lower energy than a fur con, but it was packed for the peak of the festival and they loved a giant rat jumping like a kangaroo. I got hugs and gave piggyback rides to people who surely wouldn’t have done it without a furry invading their ranks.

RockNYC has a festival review mostly for the music.

No really my neck is messeded up. But furries don't get old, they just get new fursonas, lol

— Dogpatch Press (@DogpatchPress) November 16, 2019

jfk and jackie? more like @DogpatchPress and this bitch and this time HE LIVES pic.twitter.com/eUGbEcPuzQ

— jamieloftus (@jamieloftusHELP) November 16, 2019

Panels, screenings, and interactive stuff:

ROBOT CHICKEN had a panel with the writers and makers. Writer Jamie was on stage after she got a pic with me at the afterparty on Friday night when I just thought she was a random fun person. Seth Green took questions about the show and how to get work at Adult Swim (make your own shit to get noticed.)

SQUIDBILLIES had the show cast doing live dirty comedy country/rockabilly songs, and one doing off-kilter puppeteering of Granny Squid, dressed head to toe in the same fuzzy pink as her puppet. And a standup comic named Connor O’Malley seemed perplexed at a furry in his crowd, then did a bit about his ancestors being “ratters” who would chase the vermin in their fields.

RICK AND MORTY Season 4 episodes were on par with previous ones, but LAZOR WULF disappointed. It’s a show based on a Tumblr comic with some talking animals. I wanted to like the nifty vaporwave/future funk vibe (it has a predominantly black voice cast) with graphic objects floating in animated space, but the “so random” humor got few laughs.

Those used smaller screens, but ERIC ANDRE LIVE used the same stadium stage as the music acts, which made certain stunts so… extra(!) like pulling a random guy from the audience and making him call his ex-girlfriend live to the world.

For interactive fun there was a “bull ride” with a hot dog, and cat-jousting. I avoided that and the giant inflatable slide in fursuit… wouldn’t want another hole knocked in my ear or get tossed and have my tail caught. The “Meatwad dome” was very worthwhile for trippy animation projected across the inside, and there was an elaborate rig to 3D-scan your dancing and add it to a scene of Rick and Morty doing the “Show Us What You Got” dance for “Get Schwifty.”  They said they would try the extra high-def scan for my fursuit but it didn’t seem to scan that well and the app won’t play on my phone. Get furries to test it next time?

Squeezing out high street value furry sweat from #AdultSwimFestival pic.twitter.com/7w3Sa8rc0U

— Dogpatch Press (@DogpatchPress) November 17, 2019

Location, crowd, and fursuiting:

The LA weather was as mild as could be. The stadium entrance level was a ring you had to circle to reach the stairs for access to the lower field level, sending you past all the vendors for merch and food with festival prices. If I was a poorer rat, for $14 beers I might fill up on cheese before the show or scurry in through the sewer (don’t do that, the entry cost was nice). Decent choices though. I like trash, but a grilled chicken sandwich felt healthy. That vendor had no line and was sympathetic to my sweaty costuming, handing me free beers for both paws.

To know where to go, the festival app had super useful multiple views by time, place, a visual view, a “favorites” list and an RSVP list for panels with limited capacity. The stadium seating always had space for breaks. A fursuit lounge could have been nice but at no point was I ever pressured by crowding. Attendance started slow but by late Saturday everything was raging.

The crowd was half normies in street clothes, and then nerd/comic/anime types with only moderate cosplay, like casual Ricks. Staff was abundant in standout color. There wasn’t a fursuit everywhere you turned, so anyone like Dr. Girlfriend stood out nicely. It wasn’t nearly as queer/misfit/young as fur con goers, and there was some funny side-eyeing at my fur but not enough to get ugly, and appreciation too. There was fandom magic. Shoutout to the nice woman who called me brave and said she was too shy to come in partial suit!

I lied a little about this trip being casual. Making news means eye for opportunity, so I asked ahead to the festival’s media/partnering contacts about interviews or backstage access. Of course they don’t care about a mere furry blog when big Hollywood people do their thing there every day. This fandom is the size of a flea on a dog to them. Something else worked: being there.

They didn’t answer when I tried asking for a little face time, but they kind of made us the ass of the fest. I’m so honored!

Till next time, LA pic.twitter.com/oUvm6I1x0U

— [adult swim] (@adultswim) November 17, 2019

Can’t wait to go again! Tomorrow in Part 2: A review from Dr. Girlfriend, visiting the Prancing Skiltaire, and more about furry traveling.

Like the article? These take hard work. For more free furry news, please follow on Twitter or support not-for-profit Dogpatch Press on Patreon.

Here’s one from last year we somehow missed, but we’re glad we found it now: Atomic Frenchie, a full-color graphic novel series. “When Kirby, a French Bulldog with a serious Napoleon Complex, moves to a new home in the quaint New England town of Strasburg, Massachusetts, and stumbles upon a forgotten secret laboratory, he realizes that his dreams of Planetary Conquest are finally within paw’s reach. But, suddenly, Kirby realizes he isn’t alone. Seemingly out of nowhere, a strange group of people appear, exhibiting what Kirby can only describe as superpowers! Kirby must rise up against all who stand in his way to emerge victorious in this ultimate quest for world domination.” We’re up to Volume 2 by now, written by Tom Sniegoski and illustrated by Tom McWeeney. (Look, we don’t make these things up…) Both volumes are available now in hardcover from Insight Comics.

image c. 2019 Insight Comics

We run through a decent bit of news, then Fayroe and Aureo have a Taco Tantrum.

Download MP3

Link Roundup:

• SonicFox wins esports award for console player of the year
• Chik-fil-a ending donations to anti-LGBT organizations
• Conservatives melt down after Chick-fil-A says it will stop donating to anti-LGBTQ orgs
• Half-life Alyx announced
• #FurryAndProud trended for a while
• Dragons won’t fuck the tesla cybertruck
• Furry version of Saturdays are made for dads
• Pizza Hut brings back knots
• Ronnie’s sinkhole selfie near Anthrocon
• BBF livestreamed his EF video

News:

• British Man Attempts Robbery
• Florida dog drove in circles in car in reverse
• Terminally-Ill Scientist Aims To Become “First Full Cyborg”
• Zootopia is Zootropolis
• Arizona Man Narrowly Avoids Bullets due to Taco

[Live] Taco Tantrum

Bandit shares a montage of his adventure from FC ’17. SEE MORE AT: http://www.TheRaccoonsDen.com FACEBOOK: http://www.Facebook.com/TheRaccoonsDen TWITTER: http://www.Twitter.com/TheRaccoonsDen FURAFFINITY: http://www.FurAffinity.net/user/TheRaccoonsDen INSTAGRAM: http://www.Instagram.com/TheRaccoonsDen #TRDs8 #FC2017 #FurCon

Posted by a friend: “Marked all my videos as unlisted — Will delete them later — I’m sorry to disappoint everyone but the voice acting video is canceled due to the new law.”

Yikes! That’s not a nice thing to post, and plenty of others are feeling afraid of being fined under the Children’s Online Privacy Protection Act (COPPA.) The law is around 2 decades old but was recently used for major action about violation by Youtube. It seems to threaten a growing scene for furry Youtube creators:

• Furries are winning Emmys and Youtube Creator Awards.
• More Furry YouTubers You Might Not Have Seen
• Furry YouTubers You Might Not Have Seen

Sadly I might have to say goodbye to youtube. The new COPPA laws may put a lot of furry youtubers under fire and possibly a $45,000 fine for each video from what I understand. :*(

— Ino89777 (@TheInodog) November 19, 2019

About the law and changes to Youtube, PCGamer reports:

YouTube is changing significantly in January, and video creators are afraid they may lose income and even be fined by the US government for making videos about, among other things, videogames.

The Children’s Online Privacy Protection Act is a federal law in the US which forbids the collection of data about children under 13 without parental consent. Generally, that’s simply meant that social media sites like Twitter ask for your date of birth when you sign up, and boot anyone who says they’re under 13. A kid can lie, of course, but the Federal Trade Commission allows for that reality.

Starting in January, however, it won’t allow “content made for kids” on YouTube to include targeted advertising or employ YouTube’s social features.

There’s several problem here. First there’s the idea of the government coming after any average creator.  But not so fast: that probably isn’t going to be a worry for anyone on the small and personal level, or furry fandom level. If you aren’t running a huge network that does shady things for money, you’re probably OK:

Heard about new COPPA rules for Youtube? Don't panic! Many Youtube furries are upset, but may not understand the situation. Don't delete your channel — the COPPA panic may be Youtube's own creation. This video explains. (Tip: @sturmovikdragon) 1/https://t.co/HSalqdYrDZ

— Dogpatch Press (@DogpatchPress) November 22, 2019

Next, is the issue of how to comply with this law, with creators being held responsible for notification about if their content is for kids. That can be a VERY murky condition to meet. Furries know that animation is often treated as kid stuff by default, even when loved by grown-ups.

The Verge reported:

Some of YouTube’s most popular categories falls into a gray area for the policy, including gaming videos, family vlogging, and toy reviews.

Lastly, apart from what the government expects, Youtube is putting in more automated flagging of videos that will surely create a lot of false positives. This isn’t what the government asked for; it’s something Youtube is doing to benefit itself more than its creators.

For those final two problems, and the fallout on creators with Youtube making it hard to monetize and support themselves, we can only wait and see how things go. But the idea that the government could fine you may not be a reason to stop creating on the fandom level.

UPDATE: this lawyer’s video confirms it. The problem isn’t the FTC — the FTC recognizes “general audience” content that appeals to either kids or adults. The problem is Youtube is not giving an option for creators to put their content in this category, to protect themselves.

Like the article? These take hard work. For more free furry news, please follow on Twitter or support not-for-profit Dogpatch Press on Patreon.

Online registrations may be over, but if you still crave to be part of the robot apocalyptic war, or the guest-of-honour Uncle Kage’s story times and drinking moments, Malaysian furry convention Furs Upon Malaysia has got you covered. For the first time, they will be opening a limited walk-in registration for the furcon. The details […]